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“FINISH WITH THE BELARDIS or go home to your wife and baby’s funeral.”
As if he couldn’t have a moment’s peace from Guthrie’s threat.
He’d put Lillian and the kid at risk.
He sank into the leather wingback in the corner of Belardi’s library. Guthrie had promised he’d be free after he finished this job. Nothing but a lie.
Guthrie would have him killed, either in the raid against Belardi or on some dark street a couple of days later. Easy enough since Guthrie already had a man following him whenever he left the Belardi mansion.
Yet Guthrie would have no reason to go after Lillian and the kid when Alberto was dead. They’d be safe. He had enough money in the Lawrence City bank to provide for them for the rest of their lives. And Lillian had her family.
They’d be fine. They’d probably be better off without him.
He took off his fedora and turned it between his fingers. He’d never see Lillian again, never watch the kid grow up, never give the kid a brother or sister.
Because he’d trusted the wrong man. Now, he sat here, trapped between two evils. Guthrie, a man who played both sides under the guise of justice. Belardi, a man who’d built an empire of power and wealth through illegal dealings.
He was nothing more than Guthrie and Belardi’s pawn.
Yet he’d come too far to turn back. He couldn’t leave the Belardis without sacrificing Lillian and the kid, and he couldn’t fight against Guthrie for the same reason.
He’d trapped himself.
Help me. Forgive me for where I’ve sinned.
“I wondered where you’d gone.” Belardi strode into the library and dropped onto the sofa, his movements easy for those of an old man. “Everything going smoothly at the clubs tonight?”
As if he needed the man’s company. “The ones you told me to check out are fine. Normal crowds. Normal problems related to that.”
“Good.” Belardi waved a hand to the decanter occupying the center of the mantle. “Pour us a drink.”
As if he were the man’s servant. He stood, crossed to the mantle, and lifted the decanter.
The flowery scent of brandy wafted through the air as he poured the liquor into the snifter. All he needed tonight.
He clenched his teeth, fit the stopper into the decanter, and handed the snifter to Belardi.
The man lifted the glass to his lips. “You’re not having any?”
He could fill a glass for himself, several if he wished. Maybe he could drink enough to take the edge off the mess he’d made of his life.
No. Not this. Not now.
He drove his fist into his thigh and cursed. Just another way his old life dragged at him. And it didn’t help he’d gotten so close to his old life.
Forgive me.
“Sounds as if you need one.” Belardi laughed.
Alberto sank onto the wingback and rested his elbows on his knees. Let the man think him crazy.
“You don’t partake?”
Couldn’t Belardi find some other way to occupy his time? “I work better if I stay away from it.”
God had given him an opportunity to tell Belardi the true reason he’d quit, and he’d thrown that chance away. Yet another mark against him.
“I find that amusing. A killer who abstains, and a Prohibition agent who not only drinks but also distributes the product he’s confiscated.”
An iron band clamped around his chest. Belardi had figured him out. Why else would he bring up Guthrie? No doubt, Belardi planned to kill him and save Guthrie the trouble.
Yet Belardi sat relaxed, both hands well away from the gun holstered beneath his coat.
Maybe the comment had been innocent. “One of those agents giving you trouble? You need me to take care of him?”
Belardi tossed back the remainder of his brandy. “Nothing a little money didn’t take care of. Guthrie’s running a good business of his own under the cover of that Prohibition Unit.”
“What’s his business?” Might as well find out all he could about Guthrie.
Belardi rested the snifter on his knee. “He’s taking bribes from big operations like mine and focusing on the smaller groups. Those are the ones he raids. He destroys some of the liquor but sells the majority. Seems he’s found a way to keep it hidden from his superiors.”
The band around his chest loosened. Belardi knew nothing more than he ever had. Just as he didn’t know that money wasn’t enough to keep Guthrie from raiding him. “Sounds like a man to avoid.”
Belardi tossed the snifter to his other hand. “I could’ve him taken out, but it’s not worth the trouble.” He rose, set the snifter on the mantle beside the decanter, and strode to the door. “Enough about Guthrie. I’m meeting with a contact tomorrow night, and I’ll need you and three other men to come with me. This man I’m meeting with—let’s just say he’s not to be trusted.”
**
SILENCE HELD FRANK captive. Sunlight beamed across his legs, yet the warmth wouldn’t be his. Carla sat beside him, pushing her rocking chair back and forth.
He had to speak, had to get this over with.
“Carla.” Her name emerged as no more than a pathetic rasp. He was nothing but a coward.
She turned her face to him and smiled. A true smile. A smile the words he spoke in the next few minutes would wipe away. “You’re awfully quiet. Didn’t you sleep well?”
If only she didn’t look at him with such trust. If only the pale blue of her dress didn’t deepen her brown eyes. If only he could allow this thing between them to grow.
Yet he couldn’t. For her, he couldn’t.
“I ... wanted to talk to you.”
She tilted her head and curled a lock of hair around her index finger. “I believe that’s what you’re doing right now.”
She had to make this even more difficult. He swallowed and gripped the armrests of his chair. “I think I’ve misled you. I’m sorry.”
She furrowed her brow. “How did you mislead me? Are you all right? You’re acting strange.”
How could he not act strange? What he said would hurt her, and after all she’d been through, she didn’t deserve to be hurt again. Best to be straightforward. Then he could escape. “You’re a nice girl, a beautiful girl, but ...”
Her eyes widened, and red brushed her cheeks. “It’s because of this, isn’t it?” She rapped her knuckles against the wheel of his chair. “You think because of this you’re not allowed to enjoy life anymore. And you think—you think no one could care about you because of a chair. Because you can’t walk.”
“Listen ...”
Her jaw tightened. “Will you deny it? Can you honestly say you feel nothing for me? Are you going to tell me I’m somehow so blind I can’t tell when a man enjoys being around me?”
He maneuvered the chair to face her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression. I don’t want to hurt you.” Dryness claimed his mouth. He didn’t have to say any more. He could laugh and act like he’d been joking. Or he could concede to her reasoning.
Yet he could do neither of those things.
“There can’t be anything between us. I have no job. I don’t leave the house.” He shook his head, heat flaring through his face. “Don’t you want a man who can provide for you? Who can protect you? Who can give you children?”
The red in her cheeks spread to her hairline, and she opened her mouth.
He slashed a hand through the air. “I won’t be a burden to you. I’m already a burden to my family, and I won’t sit around and watch while you wear yourself out trying to provide for me. Because someday you’ll hate me for it.”
Yet no more than he could hate himself.
She dashed a strand of hair from her face. “There’s more to you than a pair of legs, and there’s more to life than walking. You’re not the only one who came back from the war paralyzed. Aren’t there other paralyzed men who work and get married?”
“Sure there are. Not all men are cowards like me.”
She pulled in a hard breath. “You are not a coward. Stop calling yourself that. Stop saying you’re a burden. Stop punishing yourself for something that was in no way your fault. Yes, you can’t walk. That’s horrible, but God still has a purpose for you.”
“No.” How could He?
Tears gathered in her eyes. “Please don’t do this to yourself. Please.”
He’d done this to her. He’d caused her more grief.
She blinked hard. “He has a reason for you to be alive. Just as He has a reason for me to have survived.”
Why did she have to keep arguing with him? Why couldn’t she accept his logic? “I’m not good enough for you.”
She nudged her rocking chair into motion. “None of us are good enough.”
“I know that. I’m not talking about theology. I’m trying to get you to be reasonable. Didn’t you hear anything I said?”
She flinched. “That you couldn’t protect me, provide for me, or have children with me? That you’d be a burden to me? That I’d hate you? That you’re a coward?” She stared at him, eyes red.
She did care for him. She cared enough to fight for him.
But she couldn’t win. He couldn’t let her win.
“Yes, I heard all that. And none of it’s true. Not a single bit of it. You’re perfectly capable of protecting and providing. I’d never hate you. You’re not a burden. And your family doesn’t see you as one. For the last time, you aren’t a coward.” Red flushed her face, and she lowered her head. “As for children, what does it matter if they’re yours in ... that way? Wouldn’t you love ones you adopted?”
How was he to counter her when she kept knocking down his logic?
She lifted her head. “And didn’t you jump a little quickly from admitting you had feelings for me to talking of marriage?”
Wasn’t that where feelings led? He squeezed the wheels of his chair. “I want things to be clear between us. That’s all. I didn’t want to lead you on.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I want to know. I want to know if you’d be saying the same thing if you weren’t in that chair.”
She’d see through any lie he managed to blunder his way through. “No. But that’s meaningless. I’m in this chair, and nothing’s going to change that.” He took a slow breath. “You can tell me I’m wrong all you want, but it’s not going to change anything.”
He angled the chair toward the door. Away from her. “I’m sorry.”
He fought to open the door, then rolled through.
“Wait. You can’t do this.”
He had to.
He propelled the chair into the parlor.
“Frank, listen to me. Please. You’re believing a lie.”
No, only truth. The truth that he’d never walk again. The truth that he was a coward, a burden, a man to be pitied.
The truth. The horrible, empty truth.
**
IF SHE COULD SLEEP, surely she’d wake and find the miserable conversation with Frank had been nothing but a nightmare. That the man who’d brushed her hair behind her ear couldn’t have been the man who’d turned his back on her and rolled into the house.
Yet it was no more nightmare than the ache in her chest from her family’s attack.
No, her life had turned into one continued nightmare. A nightmare of pain, loss, and violence. Once again, she’d lost someone, a friend, a hope for something more.
She leaned against the stack of pillows on the bed and pressed her index finger and thumb to her gritty eyes.
She’d said so much wrong, so much that had probably offended him.
“You’re not the only one who came back from the war paralyzed. Aren’t there other paralyzed men who work and get married?”
She pressed harder against her eyes. Had she truly said that? She’d made him feel like an inept coward by comparing him to other men with his same problem. No wonder he’d left her alone on that porch. No wonder he didn’t want anything to do with her.
She lowered her hand to her lap. Poor Frank. The things he’d said ... That he believed himself to be a coward. That he couldn’t protect or provide for a wife. That he was a burden to his family.
And how could he believe God had no purpose for him?
Forgive me for the things I said wrong. And help me. Help me to show him that You do have a purpose for his life.
If he would even speak to her after this morning.
“Carla?” Mae’s voice drifted through the door. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Mrs. Ashton had likely told her the whole sorry tale. Not much could be kept secret when the day was warm enough for open windows.
She straightened on the bed. “Come in.” She should’ve washed her face to disguise evidence of her tears. Not that it mattered. The Ashtons had seen her in many states of disrepair.
Mae slipped in and closed the door behind her. “I thought you might like some company.”
“I’m always up for company.” Yet the dullness of her voice betrayed her. “You can have a seat if you’d like.”
Mae pulled the chair away from the wall and sat, hands folded in her lap. She raised an eyebrow. “My little brother’s not always the brightest. I hope you can forgive him.”
“I do forgive him. I’m not angry at him, not really.” She straightened a wrinkle from the quilt. “Maybe I am. I’m angry at him for believing so many false things. I want him to see he’s here on this earth for a reason. That he’s not a burden or a coward.”
Mae leaned forward. “You can’t change him. You’ve got to leave him in God’s hands. The Lord’s taught me that the hard way over the last five years.” Her gaze grew distant, sad. “When Davis came back from the war, he was furious, so furious he’d fight with anyone who’d give him the time of day.”
Not the Davis Mae had introduced her to. He hadn’t appeared to have a mean bone in his body.
Mae smoothed wisps of hair behind her ears. “Frank’s different. He’s not angry so much as sad. Sad to a depth I can’t explain. I can’t pretend to understand it. I know Hazel leaving did make it worse. But he doesn’t talk about things like that with me.”
Yet he’d told her some. He did care about her. He trusted her. Even if he pretended like he didn’t.
Carla dragged her handkerchief from her pocket and blew her dripping nose. “What should I do?”
Mae’s lips tilted into a soft smile. “That’s no question to ask me. I grew up with him, and I haven’t figured it out. Pray for him. Trust God with him. If you’ve not noticed, my family’s a mess.”
“Even you and Davis?”
“You’ve got to ask that, don’t you?” Mae swiped a clump of lint from the shoulder of her blouse. “I suppose I never told you about the time I dumped Davis and ran off to New York to look for Hazel. Of course, he came looking for me, and embroiled himself in the trouble I’d stirred up.”
She rolled her eyes. “Then there’s Hazel. That girl used to think I was halfway to being an angel. If anyone could spend a minute in my head, they’d rule out that idea.”
“Did Mrs. Ashton send you in here to cheer me up?”
“No, Ma doesn’t do things like that. If she thought you needed someone, she’d have come right on in.”
“She does always know, doesn’t she?” Just as Mamma had.
“She always knew when I’d skipped my morning chores.” Mae laughed, then sobered. “I really am sorry about ... well, about Frank. You’ve had a rough time recently.”
“I thought it was getting better for a few days.” She winced. Such pathetic words. “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” Mae crossed her ankles. “I think we all believe we have to pretend the Christian life is easy, and we forget that it’s a battle. Sure, we win sometimes, though only through Him. Other times, we get wounded and kicked to the dust. Either way, He doesn’t fail us. He’s always there to help us, to guide us, to carry us through, and to take us home when life on this earth is over.”
“From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
A reminder. A reminder of a Rock that stood firm despite the losses, despite the pain of injury, despite the grief.
She blinked away the stinging in her eyes. “He is good. He is merciful.”
“That He is. Always.”
**
AS IF BELARDI COULDN’T have waited to have him check up on the manager of another speakeasy.
Alberto stepped from the dark staircase leading to the speakeasy’s entrance beneath the warehouse and into bright afternoon sunlight.
The man Guthrie had ordered to follow him today leaned against the side of the warehouse, hat pulled low over his eyes, shoulders drooping.
Alberto headed for the Rolls parked in front of the warehouse, but Guthrie’s man didn’t follow.
Just as well.
Not that the lack of a tail would do anything for him. He couldn’t get to Georgia and Lillian before Guthrie found out what he’d done and ordered his man in Lawrence City to take out Lillian and the kid.
As if he’d had to get into a mess like this. But gotten into it he had.
He strode toward the Rolls.
“Moretti.”
The voice came from behind him, and he spun, jammed his hand beneath his overcoat and suit coat to grip his .45.
John Scranton strode toward him, hands in his pockets, a grin on his bearded face.
As if the pastor had to show up now. Now when he’d stepped way too close to his old life.
And Scranton would know. Scranton always knew.
Scranton came to a halt in front of him and slapped him on the shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in church in a while.”
At least Guthrie’s man hadn’t made an appearance. But even though he hadn’t, Alberto needed to get Scranton out of the way as soon as possible. He didn’t need to be dragged into this mess.
“I’ve been working.”
Scranton nodded. “Still no transfer?”
Alberto shrugged. As if the transfer mattered anymore. He wasn’t getting out of this alive, and Guthrie was crooked.
But Scranton didn’t need to know all that.
“Any word from Lillian? I’m sure Matteo’s getting big by now.”
And he should be there with them. Not here. Not putting them in danger.
Alberto leaned against the Rolls. “They were both fine last time I talked to her.” Which would likely be the last time he spoke to her on this earth. Because of his own foolishness.
Scranton tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “What’s bothering you?”
As if he needed to lie to his pastor. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Hold on a minute.” Scranton kept staring at him. “You better try to answer that again.”
Scranton didn’t need to be that perceptive. But if telling Scranton something would get him on his way, that’s what he had to do. “I’ve made a mess of the job.”
Scranton only nodded.
As if that one sentence couldn’t be enough. “I trusted the wrong man. Got in some situations that were too much like before.” He needed to stop talking, needed to get in the Rolls and drive off.
Scranton slipped his hand back into his pocket and leaned one shoulder against the exterior of the warehouse. “If you need help, you know I’ll do everything I can.”
Still no sign of Guthrie’s man. And no traffic or pedestrians cluttered the street.
“Nothing you can do.” No, he’d gotten in too deep for anyone to help. And he’d dragged Lillian and the kid in with him. Protect them, Lord. Only you can protect them.
Scranton’s shoulders rose and fell. “You know there’s only One Who’s always worthy of trust. Look to Him.”
**
THE WAREHOUSE GAPED around Alberto, the wooden floor empty save for a few broken boards and bits of glass. Moonlight filtered through the dirty windows and reflected off the shards of glass.
“He’s late.” Belardi crossed his arms, his words growled to no one in particular.
As if this untrustworthy man couldn’t show up on time.
Belardi’s three other men stood in a loose circle, their conversation low and punctuated by curses.
Alberto braced his shoulders against the wall.
Rusty hinges squealed.
“Ah, there he is.” Belardi uncrossed his arms. “McClellan, I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
McClellan? That bozo was Belardi’s contact? Seemed Guthrie’s habit of playing both sides had worn off on his men.
Alberto tugged his hat low over his eyes. If the man recognized him and blew his cover ...
Yet in the shadowy warehouse, chances were high McClellan wouldn’t pay him any mind—much less recognize him.
McClellan swaggered to Belardi, his oily red hair catching the faint light coming through the windows.
The three other men ceased their conversation and joined Belardi.
Belardi glanced over his shoulder. “Donati, get over here. I want you to meet the esteemed agent.”
As if he had anything to say to the bozo. As if he needed to leave the cover of the shadows and invite McClellan’s scrutiny. But to disregard a clear command would only draw McClellan’s attention. He covered the distance in a couple of strides and came to a stop beside Belardi, head angled to the floor, hat pulled low.
Belardi rested a hand on Alberto’s shoulder, the gesture almost fatherly. “McClellan, I just introduced you to my other men. This man here is one of the newest additions to my organization, Michael Donati.”
“Donati? I don’t think so.” McClellan gave a cruel laugh. “He ...”
Alberto lunged and drove his fist into the man’s jaw. McClellan crashed to the floor and lay still.
Silence dropped over the warehouse.
As if the bozo couldn’t have been his usual unobservant self. As if this mess had to disintegrate into chaos.
Yet it had. And now he had to fix it.
He turned to face Belardi. Pain radiated from his knuckles, through his wrist, and into his collarbone.
Belardi stared at him. “I wanted to hear what he had to say, Donati. What does that fat traitor know that you didn’t want him saying?”
He’d waited too long to drop McClellan. “A man doesn’t like his past dragged out.”
“Answer my question.” Belardi slipped his hand into his coat and the three other men did the same.
He could take down one or two of them before they got him, or he could attempt to throw them off track. He made no move for his .45, leaving his arms hanging at his sides as if relaxed. “I worked under Vincenzo Rossi.”
Belardi cursed. “Rossi. I assumed something like that when you first came on. Good try, but it’s more than that. You wouldn’t have dropped him if it were something you could explain away that easily.”
No, a simple answer couldn’t have resolved this. Bile rose in his throat.
On the floor, McClellan stirred.
Cold metal pressed to the base of Alberto’s head.
“I believe I’d like to hear what McClellan has to say. Wouldn’t you, Anthony?” Sarcasm drenched Emilio’s voice.
Where had the man come from? Why hadn’t he spent tonight drunk in a speakeasy as he did every other night?
“Especially since I just got rid of the man who followed Donati here.” Emilio twisted the gun against Alberto’s head. “You didn’t think I’d see that?”
As if this could get any worse. What would happen to Lillian and the kid now that Emilio had killed the man Guthrie had ordered to follow him around? Would Guthrie think he’d done it?
Belardi narrowed his eyes.
A smile spread over Belardi’s face, and he nodded to the three men. “One of you help him up. Seems he’s got something to tell us.” Belardi pulled his hand from his coat and leveled a revolver on Alberto’s chest. “That is, unless Donati would rather save himself some pain and tell the truth.”
Belardi strode forward and jerked Alberto’s gun from his holster. “I wouldn’t want you to think you can get out of this.” He cursed as he stepped back. “I warned you what I’d do if I thought you were anything less than loyal.”
Belardi lowered the gun.
He had no escape. No escape other than the bullet Emilio would put in his brain if he so much as moved.
A shot cracked through the warehouse.
Pain tore through Alberto’s right thigh. His leg buckled, yet Emilio’s arm snaked around his chest and kept him from falling. The man’s gun ground into his skull.
His pulse spiked, and thick warmth ran down his leg. “You told me then you’d kill me.” No need to show the man more of a reaction than he already had.
Belardi nodded. “I still have that option. After I hear what McClellan says.” He glanced away from Alberto. “Bring him over here.”
One of the men helped a staggering McClellan to Belardi’s side. Belardi took a couple of steps to the right. “All right. Finish what you were going to say.”
McClellan glared at Alberto and let out a stream of curses. “You mean Donati? Or Alberto Moretti?”
Belardi had to know he’d done his best to destroy the Rossi business after Vincenzo’s death. Maybe he also knew he’d taken a job with the Prohibition Unit. Either way, all that waited for him was a bullet in the chest. If Belardi were merciful.
The fire scorching his leg said otherwise.
“Moretti? Is that all you have against him? Moretti’s little act of vengeance against Rossi allowed me to expand my business.”
“That’s not all. Not by a long shot.” McClellan pressed his hand to his jaw.
“Get him out of here. You think anything that comes out of a traitor’s mouth can be trusted?” Alberto dragged in a breath. As if his words didn’t reek of veiled desperation.
“Shut up.” Emilio twisted the gun against his skull. “Let’s hear what McClellan has to say.”
McClellan sneered. “He’s a Prohibition agent. He and Guthrie are planning a raid that will take out your organization. He turned over a list of your speakeasies, your warehouses, your men, and information about your supply chain to Guthrie. Guthrie knows everything about you. Because of him.”
McClellan hadn’t withheld anything.
Gray framed the edges of his vision.
“A Prohibition agent.” Belardi’s voice came cold, hard. He lifted the revolver and aimed it at Alberto’s chest. “A traitor of the worst sort. Even worse than you, McClellan.”
He swung the gun toward McClellan and pulled the trigger. The man once again collapsed, this time with a bullet in his chest.
“Why’d you do that?” Emilio’s voice rang from behind Alberto. “You lost your source of information with those agents before you really had it.”
Belardi leveled the gun on Alberto’s chest. “Because he’ll report back to Guthrie that we’ve killed Moretti. We can’t have that.”
One unarmed man against five. Not good odds. And his leg made those odds even worse.
“Take him outside. Put a couple of bullets in him. Throw him in the river. Guthrie will only be able to guess what happened to him.” Belardi waved the gun toward the warehouse door.
Emilio slipped his arm from around Alberto’s chest and gripped his arm. Still, the gun pressed to Alberto’s head. “Walk.”
Walk. As if that were so easy.
He gritted his teeth and forced his injured leg forward. It held under his weight, yet pain clawed from his gut to his foot. Step after step. Second after second of his life slipping away.
One of the men opened the door, and Emilio shoved him into the night. Cold wrapped around him, cut through his heavy coat and chilled his skin.
The lapping of the river against its banks mingled with the rumble of engines. If he could get free from Emilio and somehow avoid being hit, he could lose himself in the maze of warehouses.
Yet if he tried anything, he’d earn a bullet through the head.
“Keep walking.”
Agony gripped his leg with each step. Sweat slicked his face. Sparks of light flashed around him.
He had to try something before he passed out. Or before Belardi ordered Emilio to pull the trigger.
The rushing of the river grew closer. He had no more time.
He forced a groan through his clenched teeth and stumbled to his knees. Pain ripped through his leg, and black shrouded him.
Yet the gun had left his head.
He rolled to the side. Scrambled to his feet. Fell again.
Shots cracked.
The black cleared. He shoved to his feet and staggered into a run.
More shots.
The hat flew from his head.
Warehouses on either side.
Rippling water, silvered by moonlight, stretched in front of him, bordered on the far side by glimmering lights.
The river.
A couple more steps.
Shots burst behind him. Footsteps pounded.
He threw himself forward.
And ice engulfed him.